Your daily dose of Chicano poetry
"I write poems on walls that crumble and fall
I talk to shadows that sleep and go away crying.”
Luis Omar Salinas (1937–2008)
Ten Dry Summers Ago
You could’ve planted Bermuda grass,
your neighbor to the right says.
but no, you didn’t
…and yes it’s true
your life
never depended on it…
so now I have to landscape
this bare and godless ground
that keeps eroding
into flyaway dust
changing hands
as easily as identity
have to dance, pivoting
–as a Chicano would say–
“en un daimito”
watering this wasteland
have to keep it moist
until it grows
until there’s room enough
to hold
your god and mine
Angela de Hoyos
This poem is from Woman, Woman (1985) published by Arte Público Press
Here’a an interview with de Hoyos at NeighborhoodLink.com
A Nameless Man is Caught in a Drug Raid in Tijuana
Late night
in a Tijuana bingo hall
a nameless man is caught in a drug raid
Coincidentally
a drug ballad plays at the bar next door
as masked men shout expletives
searching for traffickers and the sort
Under a table
her hands in two fists
the woman with the winning card
curses the hour
No more abstractions
in front of the tube
the morning paper
world news
Not simply a cup of coffee
And safe in his guarded home
Calderón rolls over and farts
dreaming of smoking a cigarette
at a baptism
While the nameless man goes limp
in a corner of the room
swearing off shrimp tamales and any Sinaloan place
Cartel leaders come from here, he thinks
I’d rather eat at home
and have my wife in my arms at night
The only thing a dying man gets
is attention
A. Onofre
Victor Villaseñor’s Crazy Loco Love
Frida and I
Frida came today,
I felt her close to me,
her thick braids and
her solitary stare,
following me,
reminding me that in blood
there is creation,
hope,
a new day
and that I like her
need to follow my destiny,
create,
dream,
love Esteban
as she did Diego,
curse the unborn son
like she did day after day.
Frida came today,
she sat next to me
and I cried on her shoulder.
I told her of my pain,
of my dried pen,
of the solitary rivers,
of knowing that I exist
without wanting to exist,
of that hatred of my own reflection
day after day,
of knowing how to die
piece by piece.
And Frida embraced me,
she painted a new picture for me
filled with herself,
of her feminine strength,
of her forgotten self portraits,
of that eternal love for Diego,
of knowing she existed,
that she exists
and that she will never abandon me to oblivion.
Frida came today.
Gloria L. Velásquez
This poem is from I Used to be a Superwoman Chicana, Arte Publico Press (1997)
Velasquez is also the author of the Roosevelt High series, and Xicana on the Run.
Xican@ Poetry Daily 